


i have a lot of love in my heart for my partner so i wrote them this <3

by taylor_tut



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Adoptive Parents Martin Blackwood and Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Domestic Fluff, Established Sasha James/Tim Stoker, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist has POTS | Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome, M/M, Married Life, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:00:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29814312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: An unsolicited little gift for my partner! This takes place in their AU in which Jon and Martin get married and adopt a daughter post-canon. Martin and Jon are both ill, and Jon tries to take care of Martin the way Martin always takes care of everyone else.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 4
Kudos: 64





	i have a lot of love in my heart for my partner so i wrote them this <3

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celosiaa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celosiaa/gifts).



“You’re sure it’s not imposing to ask you to take Emma for the weekend?” Jon asks, not for the first time. “I know it’s short notice.” Sasha smiles, audible through the phone. 

“Jon, it’s fine, really,” she replies. “We love having her here, and it’s been far too long since she’s been spoiled.” 

“I just. You know, I just worry about her catching the flu, with her lupus meds and being cooped up in the house with Martin and me, but if it’s too much trouble—”

“What did I say about taking ‘yes’ for an answer?” she demands, stern but kind. “If we didn’t want to, we’d have said as much. Besides, you know Tim and I just got a puppy, so we’re certainly going to put her to work teaching him tricks and getting some of his energy out before bed. We haven’t slept properly in a week.” 

Jon laughs, which turns into a harsh cough, and Sasha waits patiently for him to catch his breath. “I really appreciate it. And Martin--he’s sleeping, but he’s grateful, as well.”

“She’s a good kid, and she’s always welcome here. You both know that. Tim’s about to head out the door to pick her up—goodbye, darling,” she leans away from the phone and gives him a kiss, the sound of which makes Jon cringe, “--so make sure she’s packed and ready to go. Do you and Martin need anything?” 

Jon thinks for a moment. He’s not as useless about keeping track of things like paracetamol and whether they own a thermometer, not since Emma’s diagnosis, but the lion’s share of that is still done by Martin. 

“I think we’re alright,” he replies. “Thank you again.” 

“Don’t mention it! If you think of anything you need, just text Tim. He’ll see you soon.” She hangs up the phone, and Jon stands from the couch in an attempt to ensure that Emma doesn’t need any help packing, but immediately sees black spots in his vision. Wavering for only a moment before deciding they’re not going to dissipate on their own, he sits heavily back down, one hand to his temple to mitigate the spinning sensation. 

“Baba?” Emma calls, rounding the corner, her little floral suitcase rolling on the hard wood behind her. His hearing must’ve gone out for a moment, since he hadn’t heard her coming down the hall. Perhaps he’d fainted after all. “Are you alright?” 

“Fine, sweetheart,” he dismisses. “Just stood a bit too fast.” 

She frowns. Perhaps she’s only twelve, but at times, she seems so much older, more selfless and mature than he wishes she’d be. He doesn’t bother trying to stop her from going to the kitchen for a Lucozade and a bowl of some salty snack to bring to him. Martin had told her once, just to ease her mind, that those things helped, and she’d clung to them, desperate for some amount of control and some way to help. Sometimes she takes after Martin so much Jon’s heart feels like it could burst. 

“Apple or cherry?” she calls from the kitchen, and he laughs lightly. 

“Apple, please. Thank you.” When she comes back into the living room, he shakes his head, putting up a hand to catch. “I don’t want you getting too close.” 

Emma sighs, but doesn’t argue. “Well, I’m not throwing it to you and dealing with Dad’s lecture when we break the window. Can you bend down if I roll it?” 

Jon nods, and she does, slowly, bowling the bottle gently across the floor and sliding the packet of pretzels across the floor like a bartender.

“Are you sure I should be leaving?” 

Jon nods without hesitation. “We’ll be fine, darling. I want you to enjoy your spring break.” 

“I’d enjoy it here, on the couch with you and dad, watching movies and making sure you’re okay.” 

“Love, it’s our job to look out for you, not the other way around. We’re fine, truly. It’s just the flu. A few days, and we’ll be right as rain again.” 

“But in those few days—”

“We can call Tim and Sasha if we need anything. Or Melanie and Georgie. Or Daisy, or Basira—” 

“I get it; I get it; you’re both very popular. I just. I feel guilty.” 

Jon wishes he could hug her, but instead, he squishes his own cheeks between his hands to make a slight fish face, something he’d used to do to her when she was young that had made her laugh so hard that he’d kept it up as a sort of alternative to a hug when one of them or the other couldn’t stand to hold or to be held tight. She rolls her eyes, but returns the gesture. 

“This doesn’t solve everything, you know,” she slurs through her pursed lips, and he laughs. 

“We’ll call you every night,” he promises. “How’s that?”

She smiles. “Better.” 

The conversation is interrupted by a knock at the door. “I’m sure that’s Tim, but look first.” 

“Yes, Baba,” she laughs, standing on her tiptoes to see through the peephole and opening the door when she determines that it’s Tim. He wastes no time scooping her up into a big bear hug, twirling her around thrice. 

“How’s my favorite girl?” he asks. 

“I’m good; I’m good! Stop!” she giggles, and he finally lets her feet touch the floor again. 

“The car is unlocked. Do you need a hand with your bags?”

“I’ve got it,” Emma chirps. When she shuts the door behind her, Tim turns his attention to Jon, who is still sitting cross-legged on the couch, pretzels open but untouched and Lucozade hardly sipped. 

“How are you holding up?” 

Jon shrugs. “Been better,” he admits, “been worse.” 

“And Martin?” 

He grimaces. “I haven’t seen him this laid up in a long time. I’m worried.” 

“Well, that’s the flu for you,” he replies. “I’m sure he’s just exhausted. Have you been making sure he’s got water?” 

“Yes. I only came out here to call Sasha so I didn’t wake him.” 

Tim smiles, but there’s a hesitance to it. “If you need me to stick around, I’m sure Sash can—”

“No,” Jon replies firmly. “I can take care of Martin. You’ve done enough.” 

Tim nods. “Just. Make sure you’re taking care of you, too, alright? I know you’re worried, but you’re ill, too. You don’t want to end up with a concussion from fainting doing something you could ask for help with while I’m here, so if there’s anything I can do, let me at it.” 

Jon sighs. “Perhaps, just, a hand back to the bedroom? I’m feeling a bit dizzy.” 

“Of course, mate.”

Emma chooses that moment to reenter the house for her second bag, so Jon makes no move to get up until she’s lugging it back outside. With Tim’s arm looped under his shoulders, Jon manages to get to the bedroom without incident, leaning against the door. 

“You’ll call if she needs anything?” 

Tim smiles. “Course we will. And you’ll call if you need anything, too?”

Jon nods, and Tim is working on the reflex he has to not believe him. “Good. We’ll take good care of Emma. Just get some rest.” 

He waits to go inside the bedroom until he hears the front door close and lock behind them, and when he does, he opens the door as quietly as possible, but not quietly enough to keep Martin from stirring. 

“S’Tim here?” Martin asks, voice wrecked enough that Jon winces at the sound. 

“He was. Just left.” 

“Hm. How’s Emma?” 

“She’s fine, habibi. How are you feeling?” 

Martin takes inventory for a long moment, then groans. “Awful,” he admits. Jon makes an empathetic sound and brushes the hair from his face gently, feeling the fever heat in the proximity. 

“How can I make it better?” 

Martin snuggles closer. “Just stay here with me.” Despite his nerves, Jon smiles. 

“I can do that.” He sinks down into the bed, feeling the headache and tension in his shoulders begin to release from everywhere except behind his eyes and cheekbones. Martin’s warmth, as worrying as it is, helps with the shivery feeling that’s beginning to sink into his bones, and he rubs circles into Martin’s back until they both fall asleep. 

Jon wakes up sweating and shivering, nauseated with dizziness and with his head pounding. God, is this how Martin had felt? His mouth is dry, and he knows he needs water, but the idea of getting up to get it is daunting. He peels himself away from Martin to get some air, but the motion is so clumsy that it wakes him yet again. 

“Mmm,” Martin groans. “Jon. You awake?” 

Jon blinks until things are a little less blurry. “Yes,” he tries, but there’s no sound, so he clears his throat and tries again. “Mhmm.”

“How are you feeling?” 

He contemplates the truth, then Martin starts coughing, and the sound makes his heart hurt so much that he forgets everything else. “Just a bit tired. D’you need something?” 

Martin rubs a palm to his eye. “Tea?” he asks. “If it’s not too much trouble.” 

Nothing, absolutely nothing is too much trouble, not if it’s for Martin. 

“Course.” He moves to stand and his vision goes black as soon as his legs are over the side of the bed. He sits, waiting for it to clear, sits longer when it doesn’t, when his vision starts to fade and tunnel, when his hearing fades into a high-pitched ringing and he can’t feel his hands any longer. 

“Jon?” he distantly hears Martin asking, feels him shifting in the bed. 

“Fine,” he replies, “just taking a moment.” He shifts jerkily away from Martin’s hand, which reads as irritation, so Martin recoils. 

“Okay,” he says gently, “if you’re sure.” 

“I am. I’m--I’m going to make that tea.” 

Before Martin can argue with him, Jon is up and out of bed, hand trailing the wall for stability the entire way out of the room, and Martin is too tired to go after him. 

By the time Jon reaches the kitchen, he has to sit down on the floor to keep from falling over. Blindly, he reaches up for the burner they keep the kettle on and turns it to high to let it heat, then rests with his head back against the cabinet. He supposes he drifts for a bit, because before it really feels fair for him to have to get up again, the kettle is whistling. Allowing himself one more moment of self-pity, Jon hoists up his aching body--when did he start aching so badly?--and grips the edge of the counter for balance. Through swimming vision, Jon selects one of Martin’s herbal teas (he’s not quite sure which he’s grabbed, but he doesn’t think Martin will complain no matter what) and a mug. He sees more than feels hot water sloshing over his burned hand, but the sensation is so deadened that he doesn’t care. 

He’s not sure how he’s supposed to get this cup of tea back to their room, and the thought of it sort of makes him want to cry. 

He thinks of Martin. Damn it. He’s left him alone, even fallen asleep on the kitchen floor while his husband is too ill to get up and move, and now he’s not even going to be able to bring him a cup of tea to show for it? How many times, he thinks, has Martin sacrificed, pushed through, walked through literal hell for him, and he can’t do this one simple task? 

Jon gets to his feet. He grips the mug in his burned hand and braces it with his good one. And he shuffles his way back to the bedroom. Martin is sitting up for probably the first time all day, phone in his lap and wearing a worried look on his face. 

“Jon.” 

“Tea,” Jon replies, because he doesn’t want to hear whatever is going to follow. 

“Jon.” 

Martin takes the tea that’s handed to him, near half of it now empty from the bumpy trek down the hall, and sets it on the bedside table to help Jon back into bed. He allows him to catch his breath for a moment. 

“Are you alright?” 

Jon nods. “Just needed to lie back down,” he says. It’s hardly even a half truth--the dizziness and headache and fogginess don’t dissipate entirely even lying down, but he’s no longer seeing black spots, at least. “Do you want to watch a movie?” 

Martin laughs lightly, which turns into a cough. “Can’t promise I’ll stay awake all the way through.” 

Really, Jon just wants any distraction, so he takes his laptop from their bedside table and opens Netflix, searching around for something light and romantic that might hold Martin’s attention. 

He wakes up near the end of the film without having realized he’d fallen asleep, but seeing as he remembers very little past the opening credits, he assumes he must’ve passed out almost as soon as he’d pressed play. He wonders how long Martin has been asleep next to him. Did he take more medicine before he’d fallen asleep? Jon reaches over and presses his palm to Martin’s forehead lightly, trying hard to keep from waking him, and relaxes a bit--cool, at least lower than it had been when Martin had gone to bed the night before, aching and exhausted and burning up. 

He’ll be okay. Not everything is life or death, anymore. Sometimes, things will work themselves out without him even having to lift a finger, and that’s a comfort he hasn’t gotten used to yet. 

A glance at the clock finds him realizing that it’s fairly late in the evening, and the thought of having to make dinner overwhelms him. Martin hadn’t had an appetite all day, but had nibbled at a piece of dry toast that Jon had made them in the morning, then slept through lunch, and hopefully, with his fever somewhat lower, he’ll be able to stomach some soup. 

If Jon doesn’t do this, however, he knows that Martin will, and that’s enough to get his feet on the ground. Martin rolls over and rubs his eyes. 

“Where’re’y’goin’?” he mutters. Jon places a hand to his forehead once more.

“Fever’s down,” he says, and Martin nods. 

“Feels like it. M’hot.” 

“Oh, love, let me help,” he coos as Martin struggles to kick off the duvet. He peels back everything but the sheet. “Better?” 

Martin nods. “Are you alright?”

Jon forces a smile. “Fine.” 

“Because you look terrible, and your hands are warm—”

“I’m alright, darling. Back in a tick.” 

“Slow, remember,” Martin reminds, watching as Jon gets to his feet carefully, wobbles, and steadies. “Do you need a hand?” 

Jon shakes his head. “Just rest.” 

Getting to the kitchen is even more difficult this time than the last, and he struggles to find a can of soup in the cupboard to throw in a pot and set on the burner before he crashes onto the floor. 

He realizes that he can’t get up again. Between his heart racing and his head spinning and the sheer fatigue, there’s no way he’s going to be able to get up from the floor on his own, but the idea of calling for Martin makes him feel terribly guilty. Thoughts, half formed and slow as molasses, trickle through his mind as the soup heats on the stove, until his phone rings in his pocket. With trembling hands, he takes it out and squints at the screen until the name becomes clear and his heart begins to race:  _ Tim Stoker wants to video chat _ . Emma. He slides his finger across the screen to answer and tries his best to clear his head to speak. Tim is in their dining room, Emma and Sasha sitting at the table next to him. Empty dessert plates are sitting in front of them all, and Jon allows himself to relax a little. 

“Hey, Jon! I was hoping we wouldn’t wake you.” 

Jon shakes his head. “You didn’t. How’re you all?” 

Emma grins. “I’m good, Baba! How are you and Dad feeling?” 

He forces a smile. “We’re fine.” 

“Has he been awake at all?” 

Jon nods. “For a bit. Watched a movie.” 

Tim’s expression is shifting in a way Jon recognizes from their days as coworkers, before everything went wrong and they lost one another. He’s always had a way of seeing through Jon’s bravest faces. 

“Well, we just wanted to check in. Is there anything else you wanted to say, Emma?” 

She thinks for a moment, then shakes her head. “Just. Feel better, take care. I love you. And tell Dad I love him, too.” 

“I love you, darling. I will.” 

Tim takes the phone into the next room and lowers his voice once Sasha has distracted Emma with cleaning up the dishes. “Are you on the floor, Jon? Are you really okay?” 

Jon has to sort through the two questions for a telling length of time. “Making soup. Needed to sit.” 

“Okay, so, there’s no way Martin is letting you do that yourself, so I’m assuming he’s asleep again. Do you need me to come over?” 

Jon sits for a moment, gives it an honest moment of contemplation. His head is pounding and everything feels heavy. “I don’t think I can finish the soup.” 

“Yeah. You shouldn’t have tried in the first place. You know how bad these things get for you. I can be there in twenty minutes—”

“Jon?” 

Damn it. He must’ve woken Martin. “In here.” 

Martin rounds the corner into their kitchen, blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and frowns. “What’s going on? Is everything okay? Sasha texted and said I should check on you.” 

“That’s my girl,” Tim cheers. Jon rolls his eyes. 

“I’m fine,” he replies reflexively again. “Just. Go back to bed.” 

Martin frowns. “No, I don’t think I will. What are you doing on the floor?” He turns the burner off as he crouches next to Jon, looking at him well for the first time all day, and Jon can see the guilt creeping in over his face. “Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks as he presses the backs of his fingers to Jon’s forehead, his cheeks. “You’re burning up.” 

“I was--I was worried.” 

“Jon, we were meant to be taking care of each other. You made tea earlier; I was planning on covering dinner.” 

“You're just. Always taking care of other people. I didn’t want you pushing yourself.”

“That’s why you ask for help,” Tim adds, nearly forgotten on the phone. “I told you I’d be happy to stop by. I can bring you dinner.”

“That would be really nice, Tim. Thank you. You’re sure it’s not too much trouble?” 

“Course not. Not to mention, Emma will probably sleep better if I check on you one more time before bed. I’ll be by in a bit. Just get Jon taken care of.” 

After saying their goodbyes, Jon hangs up the phone and Martin helps him off the floor, supporting some of his weight as he sways. 

“Sorry.” 

“You never have to apologize for leaning on me, love. Not in any way. Let’s get back to bed, the both of us.” 

“That sounds good.” 

When Tim comes by with soup and crackers and various other goodies and sweets, Martin is awake, sitting up in bed and rewatching the parts of the movie he’d missed while Jon sleeps with his head in his lap. Tim knocks on the door frame smiling. 

“Hey,” he calls, “are you up for a meal? I can heat up some soup. Seems Jon burned an earlier attempt a bit, so I’ve washed out the pot and it’s ready to go.”

“Thank you,” Martin says. “Yeah, I think some food would do us both some good. That is, if you don’t mind?” 

“Don’t mind at all. How are you holding up?” 

Martin makes a vague motion with the hand that isn’t playing with Jon’s hair. “Better than earlier, but not great.” 

Tim nods. “And him?” 

Martin laughs. “A mess, but what else is new?” 

“He was worried about you, Martin. You know I’m the last person to jump to Jon’s defense, but if there’s one thing I don’t think we get to judge, it’s doing stupid things out of love.” 

Martin thinks of Daisy in the Buried, of himself in the Lonely, of every scar and his missing ribs, and reminds himself that, as annoying as it is, it’s one of the things that he loves about Jon--underneath the prickly, tough exterior is someone who cares a lot. 

“Hm. I suppose.” 

“Well, I’ll be heating up soup downstairs. Wake Jon up; we’ll get some food and medicine into both of you and you’ll be feeling better in no time.” 

Martin lets him sleep a few minutes longer.


End file.
